The Hot Shot Page 9

  Thankfully, the call finishes fairly quickly. As soon as I hang up, I let out a breath and hold my head in my hands. What the fuck is wrong with me? I just hissed and swiped over Finn like some territorial she-beast. I have the horrible suspicion that, if I had been in the room with Dani and Meghan at the time, I’d have bared my teeth at them.

  Total she-beast.

  Finn isn’t mine, and he can take care of himself. Then again, he didn’t want to be seen as some piece of man-ass. You were right to protect him.

  Running my fingers through my hair, I flip the heavy mass back over my shoulder and take a long, cleansing breath. I have work to do. Thinking about Finn Mannus isn’t part of that job. The sooner I remember that, the better off I’ll be.

  The thought barely settles when my phone digs and my stupid heart gives a happy leap. It’s embarrassing how fast I grab for the phone. Maybe even more so when my grin wavers, as I see that it’s James texting.

  JamesTTwerk: You almost done for the day?

  CC: Just finishing up

  JamesTTwerk: Cool. You want me to pick you on Friday?

  It takes me a second to remember what the hell he’s talking about. When I do, I sigh. James is back from New York, and we’re supposed to go to our friend Malcolm’s annual “Cocks and Cocktails” party. I slump against my chair. Same people, same conversations. Why that has suddenly lost its appeal, I can’t say, but just the thought of going exhausts me.

  I’m tempted to tell James don’t want to go, but I know he’ll just nag and cajole me out anyway. And I clearly need to get out of this loft and out of my own head for a while.

  Chapter Six

  Finn

  * * *

  Things some people might not know about my job. I am a chess player. You might think I’m just standing there in the huddle, or on the line of scrimmage, shouting out instructions passed down to me by the coach. In reality, it’s more than that. I’m reading the defense, arranging my guys like pieces on a board, reacting and plotting. And I’m given about five seconds to do it.

  I am a cheerleader. I don’t have pom-poms, and while my ass is admittedly cute, I don’t shake it—much. But I am absolutely cheering my guys on. Pride is a powerful motivator. So is loyalty. I create both when I tell them how fucking brilliant they are on good plays, for them to keep pushing, never let up.

  I am a leader. They look to me to set the tone, to take the game in hand. Even if some of them will never admit it.

  And I am an actor. If I fold, if I show fear, it’s game over for my men. There isn’t a play in which I’m not faking the defense out, putting up a good front, and playing mind games.

  On the field, it’s mind, body, sprit working in perfect harmony.

  As I said, best job in the world.

  And then we have the other days of the week.

  I suppress a sigh and flip through the massive binder on my lap. In the armchair next to me, is my backup QB, Dillon. Wooster, the third string quarterback, is sprawled on the couch. Not sure why that fucker gets to lie down. But house rules regarding seating has always been first come first serve. Somehow Wooster always get to the couch first.

  Altman, our offensive coordinator is droning on, explaining the new play calls that I can read for myself if he’d end this meeting and let me. One hundred and thirty new play calls, to be exact.

  Did I mention I’m also a student? Every week, I study, learn, memorize. Playbooks are my life. I read over them at night, during breakfast, whenever I get the chance. But right now?

  I want out.

  My head isn’t in it. It’s past five on a Friday, I’m fucking tired, and we’ve have been here for hours, reviewing footage and now the playbook.

  Fingers snap, the sound catching my attention. Altman’s cold blue eyes drill into me. He’s about fifteen years older than I am, once a backup quarterback who got traded around towards the end of his career. It’s the thing we fear most, being tossed aside, scrambling to find work, and finally realizing no one will pick you up.

  But Altman made the most of it. He’s an excellent offensive coordinator and will probably be a coach one day.

  “You got something to share with the class, Manny?” he asks now.

  This is my second year working with him. I can read him well and know he isn’t pissed. Yet.

  I give him an easy smile. “Yeah, I’ve gotta use the can.”

  “Can’t hold it in, Manny?” Dillon teases.

  “Heard it’s bad for the prostate,” I say blandly.

  Wooster snorts. “Wouldn’t want Manny to lose his shit on the field, now would we?”

  That’s exactly what he’d love. But, despite what people might think, we’re not exactly enemies either.

  Even so, I give him the finger. “Spin on this a bit, Rooster.”

  Altman snorts. “Dick around on your own time, kids.”

  But he lets us go. Thank fuck.

  As soon as we’re out in the hall, Dillon is on the phone, making no effort to keep his voice down. “Hey, baby,” he croons. “Just got out. Yeah. Yeah.” He nods along to whatever his wife is saying.

  I know it’s his wife because he always calls her after meeting, and he always calls her baby.

  I walk a little ahead of him, trying to get out of earshot but maintenance is buffing the floors and going is slow.

  “She sleeping yet?” Dillon asks his wife. There’s a pause, and then the man truly croons. “Baby girl. That’s right, it’s Daddy.” The sound of a babish squawk comes from the vicinity of the phone, and he chuckles.

  I move around an equipment hamper, but get caught up at the door to the gym. Dillion ends the call with his wife, promising to be home soon. The look on his face is so contented and softly joyful, it feels like I’m invading his privacy.

  But he catches my eye and grins wider. “Vera’s starting to stand up now.”

  Vera. Right. I knew that. “She’s about a year?”

  “Ten months.” He pulls a photo up on his phone and shows me.

  Dillon’s wife is blonde and beautiful in a homecoming queen sort of way. Their daughter is a perfect blend of them, her hair a riot of tight brass-colored ringlets, her skin light brow and dewy with youth. Bright hazel eyes shine as she smiles at the camera, displaying two front teeth.

  It almost hurts to look at her, she’s so cute and happy. “She’s beautiful, man.”

  “I know this,” Dillon says proudly. He gives me a friendly clasp on the shoulder. “Best thing in life, man, having a family. No matter what shit these guys tell you.”

  The family men are always trying to convert us poor, soulless singles. Jake claims it’s so they feel better about being trapped. I used to agree. Now, I’m not so sure.

  Dillon heads out, and I’m left rubbing the tightness along my chest. The place is fairly deserted right now, most of the guys having long since gone home. I turn the corner and enter the gym on the way to the locker room. The familiar scent of metal, rubber, and lingering sweat soothes a little.

  Rolondo is working the leg press, his muscles straining as he huffs and pushes his legs out straight.

  “You should be working with a spotter,” I tell him. “At least if you’re going for the free weights.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” The weights clank as he lowers them too fast. He grabs a towel and wipes the sweat from his face. “What you doin’ here, Manny? Everyone else has scattered like roaches to the light.”

  I laugh. “I could ask the same of you.”

  He rises with a groan and then stretches. “Lost track of time.”

  Wooster walks in, wearing the smarmy expression that he never truly seems to drop. “You guys hear about Dex?”

  “I heard,” Rolondo deadpans while shooting him an annoyed look.

  “I haven’t.” Concern makes my words sharp. “What’s going on? Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine,” Rolondo says. “It’s nothing but some nonsense bullshit.”

  Wooster ignores Rolondo. “PR release
d a few photos of that beefcake calendar you all are in.”

  Beefcake? I feel an eye roll coming on. But it’s news to me that PR sent out photos. I’m guessing I’m not in them or I would have heard. I think about Chess looking over the shots we took and feel exposed all over again. Shaking the sensation off, I wave my hand at Wooster to continue.

  “Press was all over Dex’s photo.” He glances at Rolondo with a glint in his eyes. “Guess they found it the most interesting.”

  Rolondo makes a lazy jerk off gesture.

  But Wooster goes on. “Dex’s old teammate gave an interview, claiming that Dex is a virgin. Next thing you know, some crazy ass dating service got wind of the story and is offering a bounty of his virginity.”

  For a second, I can only stare, my mind spinning. “What the hell?”

  Seriously, what the hell?

  “How did I miss this?” I ask no one in particular.

  “Too busy searching for your own press?” Wooster throws out.

  I glance at Rolondo. “He okay?”

  “He’s fine. Like I said…” He gives Wooster another nasty look. “…It’s just some dumb bullshit.”

  I doubt Dex is as okay as Rolondo claims. Dex covets his privacy like a miser hoards gold. Not that I blame him; none of us exactly relish our private life being exposed. I make a note to call Dex as soon as I’m alone.

  “I heard the photographer is a woman,” Wooster says, cutting into my thoughts.

  My head snaps up, my gaze narrowing as something hot surges in my gut. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

  Rolondo starts shaking his head. “Man,” he mutters under his breath.

  Wooster, however, clearly sees blood in the water and is just that stupid. “Guess it doesn’t. Just heard that she was hot in a The Fast and the Furious kind of way.”

  I take a step in his direction. Blood pounds in my head. “Fast and the Furious?”

  “Yeah, you know a lowrider hood ornament that you fuck fast and furi—”

  My hand is wrapped around his throat before he can finish. I don’t remember moving, but I’m not letting go. “You want to keep that tongue,” I grit out, “I suggest you shut the fuck up.”

  Wooster claws at my arm, but he can’t get free. But then he relaxes with a smile. “I get it. You’re fucking her. Nice, man. Bet she’s getting around with a job like that.”

  Two steps forward, and I’m slamming him into the wall. “You need to shut the fuck up, asshole.”

  Rolondo steps between us, but he’s looking at me. “He’s not worth the fines, Manny.”

  Debatable. But I loosen my grip.

  Wooster shakes me off and then smirks. “Can’t forget that paycheck, can we?”

  Rolondo makes a noise of disdain. “Stop playin’ as if a fine won’t hurt you more than it does either of us, punk ass. And stop disrespecting women. Didn’t your momma teach you better?”

  “Pretty sure you’d be singing a different tune if you had any interest in women,” Wooster drawls.

  Rolondo is gay. He’s never hidden it, but until now, I haven’t heard anyone give him shit.

  “What the fuck did you just say?” I lunge for Wooster again.

  Rolondo blocks me, his expression almost serene as he stares down Wooster. “I’d say suck my dick, but I have standards. Now get the fuck out of here and worry about improving your weak-ass game.”

  Wooster bristles, as if he’s about to reply, but his gaze cuts between us, and he backs up. “No fucking sense of humor.”

  “Oh, yeah, it’s our humor that’s a fail here.” I take a page from Rolondo’s book and make a quick jerk off gesture. “We’re done.”

  Without looking back, I head to the free weights. I want to leave, but I’ll be damned if Wooster is chasing me away. Rolondo joins me, as Wooster flips us off and stalks out of the room.

  “Man…” Rolondo starts.

  “I know,” I say over him. “I shouldn’t let that asshole get to me.”

  “Good of you to remember. Now.”

  I stare down at the weights, not moving to pick them up. “He give you shit before?”

  Rolondo lets out a half laugh. “You worried about me, Manny?”

  He sounds amused.

  I lift my head. “You’re my teammate.”

  I don’t have to say more; Rolondo gets it. But his expression remains passive. “Guys talk smack. Doesn’t matter about what. Either you take their shit or you don’t.” His gaze bores into me with unsettling depth. “I’d lock down whatever it is you have going on with the photographer. Guys will be talking about her for no other reason than she’s taking pictures of them naked.”

  The truth irks. I resent that she’s seen any dick on this team but mine, and I resent that the guys view it as some sort of joke they can snicker over. But there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

  “Chess is my friend.” I gesture toward the direction Wooster left. “I don’t let people talk shit about my friends.”

  Rolondo slowly grins. “I see that.”

  I give a short nod.

  “Just one question,” Rolondo asks.

  “What?”

  “Your dick know you’re just friends?”

  He laughs as I swipe at him, easy evading the hit. “That the best you got?”

  We duck each other’s half-hearted swings for a few, both of us needing to shake off the pall Wooster threw over the room.

  Laughing, Rolondo reaches for his pack that he’d left by the leg press. “I’m heading out.”

  Strange how his words seem to highlight how damn quiet the place is. In the far distance, a phone rings then cuts off. I’m not creeped out, but I don’t want to linger in a ghost town either.

  “What are you doing now?” I ask him.

  “My ma’s in town.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah, I’m taking her to Commander’s Palace for dinner.” He grins. “The woman’s been after me to go since she got off the damn plane.”

  “I know how that goes. My mom was the same. Had to go there and to Galatoire’s.”

  Rolondo chuckles. “Went there the other night.”

  We both laugh. And suddenly, I miss my mother. Which doesn’t make a bit of sense, since I’m a grown man, she’s been annoying the hell out of me lately, and I’ve been avoiding her.

  Rolondo goes to shower, and I’m left staring at the weights without really seeing them. I don’t want to be here. I don’t know where the hell I want to be. But one thing is clear.

  I pull out my phone.

  BigManny: Can I interest you in a po’boy?

  Chess answers almost immediately.

  ChesterCopperpot: Do you actually know any poor boys?

  BigManny: Cute. Fine, can I interest you in eating a sandwich with this here rich boy?

  ChesterCopperpot: I’m actually at a party right now. Dinner in the form of finger foods and cocktails

  Disappointment swims in my chest. I swallow past that self-pitying lump and man up.

  BigManny: Another night then. Have fun, party girl

  I head toward the locker room where I’ve left my keys. I’ll grab a po’boy and watch some basketball. Tired as I am, a night lazing on the couch sounds about right.

  I’m almost at my car when my phone buzzes.

  ChesterCopperpot: You should come here. There’s plenty of food

  I halt, staring down at the screen. Chess texts again.

  ChesterCopperpot: I promise no one will grope you unless you ask

  I smile at that.

  BigManny: Will you grope me, Chester?

  ChesterCopperpot: No but James would. He’s a huge fan ;-)

  BigManny: I’m happy to give him an autograph. But that’s as far as my call of duty goes

  ChesterCopperpot: Fair warning…If he asks you to sign his ball, run away

  A laugh breaks free, filling up all the empty spaces in my chest. God, I want to see this girl. But I hesitate; a party isn’t exactly ho
w I want to spend my time with Chess.

  The phone rings in my hand.

  “Chester,” I say with a smile.

  Her husky, sex voice competes with the sound of chatter and music in the background. “So? Are you coming or what?”

  “Longing to see me, are you?”

  “Yes,” she drawls. “I need to reconfirm that your head truly is that big.”

  I’m grinning wide now, even though she can’t see me. “Which head are we talking about?”

  “I’m hanging up…”

  “All right. I’ll behave.”

  “Sure you will.” Someone shouts loud and shrill in the background. Then Chess speaks again. “So?”

  “You sure you want me there? I don’t want to disrupt your evening.”

  Chess is silent for a second. She speaks again and sounds stiff, reminding me of the first time we met when she thought I was an asshole. “I don’t extend false invites, Finn. But you don’t have to come. Honestly, it’s okay.”

  I think about sitting comfortably at home with a sandwich versus sitting next to Chess in a room full of people I don’t know. There is no contest. “Give me the address.”

  * * *

  After a quick shower and change at home, I head out to meet Chess. The party is at a house in Uptown, near Audubon Park. Light, misty rain is falling by the time I pull up before the double gallery home, every window blazing with light. Louis Armstrong’s version of “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” drifts through those windows and, for a second, it’s as if I’ve stepped back in time.

  You get that a lot in New Orleans. Old jazz, older houses, cracked pavements, and gnarly oak trees that drip with moss pull you out the modern world and leave you feeling haunted by history. I push past the short wrought iron gate and make my way up to the door.

  It occurs to me that I’m nervous, as I ring the doorbell and find my hands clammy. And I have to laugh at myself. I’m grilled by reporters at least once a week and never break a sweat. I’ve won national championships with a crowd of one hundred thousand people screaming in a frenzy, and didn’t flinch. Yet here, I’m nervous as a teen on his first date.

  A woman wearing a purple 50s style dress opens the door. For a long second, she stares at me.